


The Son of Sōcē

by EACade



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Aasimar, Blind Character, Gen, Kidnapping, Necromancy, Original Character(s), Psychological Manipulation, Torture, character backstory, deliberate blinding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:58:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EACade/pseuds/EACade
Summary: The forging of a guardian.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the origin story for an as-yet un-played d&d character. I may or may not ever finish this, so if that bothers you it may be best you don't read it. _Constructive_ criticism is cautiously welcome (though I reserve the right not to take heed of it), but if you're just here to tear something apart then see yourself out, thanks. I will add tags as needed for content, but if I miss something please let me know what to tag and I will.

Aashwin awakens slowly, for the first time in…he’s not sure how long. How long has it been since he was brought to this place? Even before they took his eyes there was no night or day in these caverns, no sun or moon or stars. He couldn't tell the time by the coming and going of his captors, as they seemed to have no rhythm to their movements, leaving him constantly off balance and never entirely certain of being alone. He couldn't keep track by how often he slept, since the sleep he was allowed was rare and fleeting. He's never felt so tired.

He shifts his weary body, a quiet clinking of chains accompanying the slight movement, in a vain attempt to ease the stiffness in his limbs. The rough stone scrapes against the bloody furrows in his back, and he can't quite contain a soft grunt of pain. He freezes, waiting for a reaction, but it appears that this is one of the rare moments he has his cell to himself. He settles gingerly against the wall, further upright to soothe the burning ache of his shoulders, his long numbed hands suspended above him by strong shackles. In the darkness he sits quietly, thoughts drifting through nothingness, immersed in silence, savoring the absence of his tormentors until he drifts away into an uneasy sleep.

He is next awakened abruptly, by a sharp tap on the cheek. With a harsh gasp he twists away from the touch as far as he can, but his jaw is caught and held firm by strong, cold fingers. He grimaces and prepares himself for more pain, only to be bewildered when the grip on his face gentles, the cool touch almost caressing his fevered skin. A softly exhaled sigh stirs the limp hair hanging across his face, and he shudders at the sign of how close his captor has drawn. 

“I do wish it didn't have to begin this way.” The smooth, unfamiliar voice drips like oil into Aashwin’s ears, and he can't help but flinch. Another soft sigh kisses his cheek, and the hand finally pulls away. 

Aashwin listens as the man moves around the room, a rustle of cloth and creaking of wood accompanying as he sits in the chair a few feet away. Aashwin knows that chair well. His blood has soaked into the wood so deep that there's no hope of it ever coming clean. He's almost glad that he'll never have to see it again. The silence blankets the room once more, and Aashwin waits, tense and wary, for whatever fresh torment his captor has planned. And waits.

And waits.

 

 

_ And waits. _

 

He waits until he can’t bear the silence one second longer. “Wh — ” his voice breaks on a hoarse cough, and he pauses for a long moment to catch his breath. “Who are you?” he whispers, with a painful rasp. 

The other man moves slightly, perhaps leaning forward or away, as Aashwin hears a rustle of cloth and the slight creaking of the chair. Even though he asked the question, it still startles him when the man speaks, another shudder wracking his weakened frame.

“My name isn't important,” the man says softly, almost kindly. “What's important is that I am here to help you.” Aashwin huffs a ghost of a bitter laugh. As though anyone in this hellish place would be so kind.

“You can start by letting me out of these chains,” he says bitingly, then falls silent, wincing at the memory of punishments for such flippant speech. He hears again the movement of cloth and the sound of footsteps as the man moves closer once more. Forewarned this time, he doesn't jerk away at the soft touch on his face, but his muscles draw tight as a bow ready to loose an arrow as he waits for pain that doesn't come. Instead, yet another mournful sigh.

“Ah, what they've done to you,” the man murmurs. “I am so very sorry, my child, that my followers interpreted my command to bring you to me so wrongly.”

Aashwin represses a reflexive start, a cold chill of terror running down his spine. “You're the Herald,” he says flatly. “You're the reason I'm here. It was  _ you _ who…” he trails off with a snarl, pulling away from the man's touch as far as his chains will allow, heedless of the press of his wounds against the wall of the cavern. “Don't…don't  _ touch me,”  _ he spits. 

“You forget yourself.” The Herald's suddenly frigid tone sends a bolt of fear through him, and Aashwin subsides, shaking with a potent mix of rage and terror. That cold hand brushes his lank, dirty hair off his face with a light touch, tucking it behind his pointed ears. He grimaces, but doesn't pull away again.

“I've already given my answer a hundred fold since I was dragged here,” he says quietly, implacable despite the tremor of exhaustion and fear in his young voice. “I will give you the same answer now.  _ I refuse. _ ”

Without warning, the chill of the Herald's hand deepens to a searing cold, a flash of sick agony streaking across Aashwin's face. The shock of it rips a hoarse shout from his throat as he tries in vain to escape the icy grasp. After a moment that feels like an eternity the ice recedes, leaving Aashwin slumped against the wall gasping for breath, a soft whine caught in his throat. 

“I do wish you hadn't made me do that,” the man says sadly. “I had hoped we could have a rational discussion.” He pauses for a moment, then stands and begins moving toward the door. “I suppose that was too much to hope for in our first meeting. I'll leave you some time to think while I reacquaint myself with my followers.” 

Still shocked from the sudden burst of pain, Aashwin doesn’t recover enough to listen to his surroundings until there’s nothing left to hear, left alone in silence once more.


	2. Chapter 2

Some time later, at least a few hours, the sound of the door opening jolts Aashwin from his daze. He shifts up against the wall, and listens warily to the sound of two sets of footsteps approaching, one smooth and confident, one shuffling and hesitant. It’s never good when more than one person enters his cell, and he braces himself for another unpleasant session of ‘persuasion.’

“Ah, good. You’re awake,” the Herald says warmly, stopping just next to Aashwin’s huddled form. “I’ve asked around, and found out who was responsible for taking your lovely eyes. I’ve brought him here to apologize.” Aashwin shifts uncertainly, but doesn’t reply, not wanting to elicit another icy torment. A moment of silence follows the Herald’s statement, which is then broken by a pained grunt and the distinct sound of knees hitting hard stone. A faint sensation of nearby warmth tells Aashwin that his captors are much closer than before, and he cringes as far away as his chains will allow. 

“Now now, don’t worry my child, I told you I was here to  _ help _ you,” the Herald says kindly, also kneeling close by the sound. “I’m going to take away some of your hurts, and Beren here is going to assist me. Aren’t you, Beren?”

“Y...yes my lord Herald,” Beren murmurs, an unfamiliar tremor rattling a voice that Aashwin knows well. All of his experience with that voice has been in the hard, smug tones of a torturer who plies their trade because they delight in it, and to hear it now so shaken is...unsettlingly satisfying. He’s distracted from his thoughts by a cold hand brushing across the still aching spot on his cheek, and he ruthlessly suppresses another flinch.

“Ah, I think...yes, this one will stay. It looks well on you,” the Herald murmurs as if to himself. “But these others will have to go. Come, Beren,” he snaps suddenly, his tone gone sharp with anger. “Make yourself useful and help me clean up the mess you’ve made.” 

There’s a rustle of clothing and what sounds like a whimper from Beren as the Herald’s hand moves from Aashwin’s right cheek to rest lightly on his shoulder. That whimper quickly shifts to a whine, then a high, thin scream, and the sick smell of decay fills Aashwin’s nose. His breath quickens as he feels a sudden rush of warmth flooding from the Herald’s cold hand into his body. He can feel the jagged wounds on his back and the barely closed cuts and stiffened bruises over the rest of his body start to shift, the pain easing as the warmth spreads and grows. It never touches the patch of cold on his face, but even the pits of agony where his eyes used to be begin to ease their tormented throbbing. It seems like only a moment before Aashwin feels stronger than he has in probably weeks. Just as the scream trails off into gasping sobs the warmth fades, and Aashwin slumps back against the wall, hanging limply from his chains and breathing heavily.

“There, now that’s better,” the Herald says with a fond, gentle pat on Aashwin’s uninjured cheek. Bewildered and still reeling from the sudden lack of pain, Aashwin has to stop himself from leaning into the touch. 

“Why?” he whispers. “I’m not...I said I won’t do it. Why would you…” He stops with a flinch as the hand moves to touch his mouth and the Herald makes a soft shushing sound. 

“We’ll discuss our proposal later,” he says. “This was just righting a wrong. I assumed incorrectly that my instructions would be carried out to the letter, and for that I apologize.” There’s a soft thump, as though something was kicked lightly. “Get up, fool,” the Herald snaps. “Go get yourself seen to and then return to your punishment.” The still sobbing Beren struggles to his feet, leaning against the wall and looming over Aashwin’s seated form for a moment before staggering away and out the door, taking the smell of rotting flesh with him.

Aashwin senses, to his shock, that instead of standing and moving toward the chair, the Herald shifts over and sits against the wall beside him with a small hum of contentment. For someone with such cold hands, the man feels very warm next to him. Aashwin shifts, pulling his knees up to his chest and huddling into himself, confused and frightened and trying so hard not to lean towards that warmth.

“I’ve known you for some time, you know,” the Herald says quietly. “Since before you were born, in fact.” Aashwin can’t help but turn towards the man despite no chance of seeing his expression, and raises his eyebrows, baffled. “It’s true,” the man confirms. “I was given a vision of you almost precisely eighteen years ago. I knew then that you were important, but not until this last year did I learn  _ how _ important.” He falls silent then, and Aashwin wishes desperately that he could see what expression the man is making. 

“I know...that I have a purpose,” Aashwin says slowly, cautiously. “But you have to know by now that my purpose isn’t yours. No matter what you do to me my answer will still be no.”

The Herald laughs quietly, startling Aashwin into stillness. “Is that what they told you at the temple?” he asks lightly. “Did they fill your head with grand tales of your destiny? Tales of glory for their god and his righteous will? Of course they did. My dear boy, they  _ lied to you _ . Sōcē is dead. I’ve Seen it. But with your help, I can bring him  _ back. _ ” The Herald’s voice deepens as he speaks, his tone sending chills down his spine with its fervor. 

“But nevermind that right now,” he says suddenly, his tone once more shifting to warmth. “That’s not what this little visit was for. I came to right a wrong, not make my case. That can wait. For now, how would you like to be a little more comfortable, hmm?” With that Aashwin hears him stand, that radiating warmth leaning over him, and he feels the man grasping the chains holding his arms above his head. With the click of a key turning, the chains release, and he gasps as his stiff arms drop down in front of him, still shackled together. 

“Come with me, and we’ll get you some better accommodations,” the Herald says. “Can you stand?” He waits patiently as Aashwin shakily nods, and slowly climbs to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. Once he’s firmly on his feet, he feels a cold hand grasp his wrist and gently tug him forward. He leaves that room for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, and even just crossing the threshold feels like freedom. He’s finding it difficult to hold onto the thought that this man is his enemy, his  _ captor _ , and not his rescuer. He reminds himself of the cold burning on his face, and the chilly ache that lingers even now, and just tries to keep himself upright and moving. 

It’s not long before the man in front of him slows, then stops altogether, and Aashwin hears the turning of a lock. He’s tugged forward again, and led forward until his knees bump into something soft. “Here,” the Herald says gently. “You’ll be much more comfortable here. Try to get some rest, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

Leaning down, Aashwin’s bound hands sink into what feels like a thin mattress, and his fingers catch on a thick, rough blanket. He feels as though he could weep at the thought of curling up under a blanket and finally being warm. “I...thank you,” he whispers, ashamed at his weakness. He feels a cool hand tuck his hair behind his ear once more, then pat him on the shoulder. 

“It’s quite alright, my boy,” the Herald says. “No one will disturb you until I say. I’m the only one with a key to this room.” Aashwin shivers at the pointed reminder that he’s still very much a prisoner, and nods wordlessly. 

It’s not until he hears the man leave, and the lock turn, that he pulls the blanket back and crawls into the bed, pulling it over himself until there’s nothing but his horns poking out. It’s warm. Despite that warmth, sleep is slow in coming, and when it arrives it’s filled with dreams of darkness.


End file.
